Life, Love, and Revenge
by KiwiSox15
Summary: When Ruby's Mom and Nate's Dad get married, they compose a brilliant plan to break them up...a plan that includes a little visit from Marshal, Cora and Jamie's baby, and Ruby's custody. Will they survive, or crack under pressure?
1. The Birthday Present

"It's been too long," I thought to myself as I gazed into Nate's eyes and buried my head in his chest. I ran my fingers through his sun-streaked hair, realizing just then how much lighter it had gotten. I knew he had been swimming again, but I never expected him to have that look I saw in him when I first met him – confident…independent…_dreamy_ – again. But, like the way he showed up two weeks before classes started, he always found a way to surprise me.

"So what have you been up to?" he asked me after we pulled away from our first kiss in three months. I missed kissing someone. I'm not used to withdrawal for so long.

"Oh, nothing. Just missing you," he smiled at that.

"I missed you too," he whispered as he leaned in again.

"What are you two crazy kids doing?" Jamie yelled from his balcony, sporting a blue robe and fuzzy slippers. I forgot we were in the driveway.

"Nothing!" We yelled in unison, barely taking our lips off each other's to answer his call.

Jamie just laughed.

"Well, in that case…"

He might have said more after that, but neither of us heard him. A lot may have changed since I last saw Nate Cross, but some things, like the way he can read my mind, never gets old.

**The Birthday Present**

I loved the fact that Nate came pack early and all, but that meant I had to get his birthday present _now _in order to have it for his party Cora and Jamie were planning instead of for a dinner out some weekend after school started.

Bleh.

What I didn't know was that this whole mess would begin with his birthday. Between everything that's gone on this past year – he and his dad, he and Heather, he and me – I figured he disserved something special. And I had picked out the perfect thing for him – a cross. You know – Nate _Cross, _a _cross_. Whatever. I thought it was cute. And I had found the perfect one – waterproof, with room on the chain for a key to his dorm. Absolutely perfect.

But, of course, reality always has to come in and ruin things. Believe me; I know a lot about that. In this case, it was the money.

The stinking thing cost 50 bucks. I mean really, who would pay that much money for a dorky little cross on a cheap chain? Harriet could make a real, homemade one and sell it for twenty and still get complaints on the price.

Speaking of Harriet, I probably could've asked her to make one for me. But at that point, she was still having success with the keys, and barely could keep up with those with her new "distraction". (Aka Reggie) She might have just died from a heart-attack if I gave her another hit idea.

So I had to buy one myself. To a sister-in-law of the infamous creator of UMe, $50 doesn't seem like a lot of money. But to a college student, $50 is comparable to a down payment on a house. And at that point, I preferred to stay a college student, and not have to revert back to a sister-in-law to waste more of Cora and Jamie's money. They had already done enough for me; and it seemed like it'd been a while since I'd done something on my own.

That's what led me back to the yellow house.


	2. Going Against My Gut

**A/N Well here's Chapter 2! Not many people out there are reading, so just to keep myself from posting for the sake of my sanity, please review! Just one, that's all I want!**

**But since I do need to keep myself sane, I'll keep posting anyway. Don't worry :)**

My mother's old watch, which she got from my father for their first anniversary, had been left behind when she fled nearly a year ago. I remembered taking it to the jeweler to get appraised, only to find out that he charged 5% of its value. I was confident it was worth something, so I refused. Then again, the social workers must not have thought much of it when they picked out my "most prized possessions" after they kicked me out. Thinking back at it now, it wasn't anything special – a bronze head and fool's gold trim, with a couple Roman Numerals scratched out. But it was worth at least thirty at the Flee Market, and I could cover the rest.

At first, however, I was apprehensive about the idea. There were many unknowns in this equation, as Gervais would point out. I didn't have the slightest clue where the watch could be, let alone if it even remained. As the social workers rummaged through our stuff, their evidence could very well have included the grandfather watch, and could be sitting in some fingerprint-proof baggy in a sterile government investigation lab labeled and filed away in a far-away, undisclosed location. You just never know. But if there was one thing I did know, it was that Cora wouldn't approve. Which basically means it's a bad idea.

Besides that, the yellow house with the white shutters may have my mother's watch sitting in its wake, just waiting to be sold, but it also held memories I didn't know if I wanted to remember.

But, as we all know, desperation beats out emotions, and I returned to the yellow house.

There was a strange cold spout in Lakeview at the time, and I bundled up accordingly, never being much for the winter. I took the familiar bus route over to the opposite side of town, keeping a watchful eye out for Jackson kids. I didn't want to see them again.

It seemed like eternity had passed before the groggy driver called for my stop, leaving me alone to make the trek up to the yellow house. The wind blew debris from the dirt road up into my face, soiling my pea coat and making me squint. It was a longer walk then I remembered.

Finally, I looked up to see the shabby yellow shack. I walked up to the overgrown walkway, having trouble following it through the weeds and burnt grass clippings. It led me to the front porch, where screws and splinters poked its way through the wobbly floor boards, its mission to puncture my skin. And people thought it was rundown before.

The door, looking like a terminal patient just waiting to die with its edges barely hanging on to its hinges, seemed to beckon me as I took a deep breath. I robotically reached for the key hanging on my neck, only to remember that it didn't lead to this lock. It led to Cora's. Where I belonged.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," I remember thinking as I began to feel dizzy. I reached for the side rail, only for it to crumble. My knees buckled, and I fell, my knee hitting a screw. I remember so vividly that tiny bead of blood, looking like a magic marker stain as it leaked from my cut. I let out a sob, only to think of Nate. This was nothing compared to what he went through. This was nothing compared to what _I've _been through. Toughen up, Ruby. Toughen up…

I stood, tried and tested, and put my hand on the knob.

"This is it, Ruby. You've got this," I whispered to myself. I sighed, squeezed my eyes shut, and twisted the knob.

When I opened them again, I couldn't believe what I saw.


	3. My Poor Therapist

**A/N – Please forgive me for the wait! I finally got a break with this snow day…yay! **

** Special thanks to my reviewers – **

**PhoebeSkis84 – I'll remember a disclaimer this time!**

**Imanxoxo – You are so sweet! Your review gave me total motivation to keep writing – so this one's for you!**

**And to laughinglover4ever for alerting me!**

There, staring back at me, was a pair of cold, ocean-blue eyes that lingered on mine as they beckoned from behind the door. I instinctively stepped back, only to feel the lazy board cave into the crevice beneath the porch, revealing a swarm of cockroaches underneath. Today just wasn't my day.

As I recovered from my fall, the eyes disappeared, and the glimpse of a waltzing shadow heading toward the kitchen took its place. Despite my conscience telling me otherwise, I continued to pursue my mission, and stepped over the threshold. I know, I know – always trust your gut, stranger danger, I'm an idiot, bleh bleh bleh. But this is what therapy does to ya.

"Hello?" I called, sounding more like a question than a greeting. My voice echoed through the empty halls, and that lingering feeling of loneliness began to sink in. Like the curtains swaying in the wind when I first came here with Nate, my mind was playing tricks on me again.

That's what I thought, anyway, as I wandered through the living room, the memories that I was afraid of creeping back to me, acting like the remission of a disease – a disease I thought was gone for good. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the room, and paired with the darkness that was nature for the space, made me feel like I was in some sick haunted house. The sight of beer bottles gathered at the foot of the same old molded couch sent goose bumps up the side of my arm and a cold shiver through my body. I was bracing myself to search through my mother's room when I smelt the English muffin pizzas.

At first, I thought it was my mind again, a subtle reminder of Cora to drive me out of this place. But then it grew stronger; the same combination of cheap pizza sauce and year-old burnt toast filling the air, leading me to the kitchen. I followed it without hesitation, mesmerized by the accuracy of my memory. The first thing I noticed when I stepped in was those ocean blue eyes.

The second thing I noticed was the body attached to those ocean-blue eyes - a petite, wrinkly old woman with a mop of stringy-white hair plopped on her head, sporting a worn apron splattered with a wide variety of twenty-year-old food stains and smudges. A typical Grandma, standing here in the yellow house. I feel bad for my therapist.

**A/N – Sorry for the shortness! Kind of a filler chapter – new one on the way wicked soon! Promise!**


	4. Nana Beatrice

**A/N Special Thanks to Hola23 for reviewing! Best chapter yet...I promise!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lock and Key, Ruby, Nate, or anyone else. :( Sorry I forgot this the past 3 times! Whoops...**

"Who the hell are you?" the woman finally asks, bringing me out of my comma.

"I'm…I'm Ruby," was my response, barely audible as I try to compose myself. Who is this woman? And why in the world does she scare me?

"Ruby, eh?" she asks, taking me aback. Despite the lingering sharpness of her darting eyes, her voice had seemed to soften, leading me to believe a change of heart from her original stance.

"WELL WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE, RUBY?"

There goes that idea.

"I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. This is all a huge misunderstanding…" I manage to get out between my gulps for air. I still don't quite understand why this woman, probably of about 80 years, makes my stomach do flip flops. Maybe it's the idea of the social workers coming back to get me, but I'm afraid it's something more.

"It _better_ be!" she shrieks as she struggles to follow my quick retreat. I gain up the courage to glance up, only to be sorry I did. Her wrinkled face is smudged into mad grin, her rotting teeth adding to the haze. Seeing my gaze sends her arms flailing, searching frantically for something to beat me with. She is finally met with a cracked umbrella, holey but pointy, and aims it straight for my chest.

Unsure of what else to do, I brace myself for impact…until a sting of familiarity hits me. I remember that umbrella! It was mine, from when I was a little girl. It was a birthday present from my dad the year before he disappeared, along with a matching jacket and rain boots. I wore them every day to school that year, whether it was raining or not.

I didn't know what kind of reaction I would get from telling her this, but I figured it was worth a shot.

"Um, excuse me?" I say, timid, to the mad old woman. This alarms her, and I watch in agony as her bright blue eyes widen at the sound of my voice. She undoes her previous advance, leaving me a bit more room, but doesn't lose her shooting position. I open my mouth to speak again, and her head nods in approval.

"Where did you get that umbrella?" is what eventually comes out. My eyes immediately dart to the ground in fear of what she'll say, or do, next. But nothing happens. I look to her shoes for a clue to what she's doing, but am surprised to notice that her Granny sneakers are locked to the floor, unmoving, not much unlike mine. Surprised, I slowly turn my head up, meeting her serious gaze.

After a few moments of exchanging a bewildering look, she bursts out laughing. Not just an elderly chuckle, but a full-out, uproarious snort. Clearly not participating in such a stir in a long while, she clutches her stomach, and eventually stops from the pain, but not after a good, long round of pain-stricken hysteria. She lends out a hand, and I hesitate for a moment before I nervously grab hold. She encloses it in her other, and furiously shakes it. "I'm Nana Beatrice," she says, "I'm glad I didn't kill you."

I manage to stickle a laugh as I say "Me neither."

Which, of course, sends her right back into hysterics.

She leads me back into the kitchen, where she waves me into a rickety old chair I recall belonged to the dining set my mother had bought at a tag sale. I knew it was a piece a junk the moment she brought it home, but she was a sucker for hot sale guys.

I watch her as the woman prepares the English Muffins pizzas, which I now recognize are two. She puts them each on their own paper plate, and sets one in front of me. I look up to her for approval, but she just shakes her head, so I dig in. I haven't had own of these in forever. She takes a seat across from me, and we just eat in silence for a moment, before she speaks again.

"So what do you want from me, dear? My money, my house, my leg…I've heard it all; so don't be shy," the woman, or Nana Beatrice, as she just told me, chirped in her Grandma-sweet voice of hers.

"I was just looking for my mother's old watch," I begin, uncertain of how to tell her this, "but I guess the Honeysuckles must have cleaned it out once they sold it to you," Sure, they left the umbrella, but that's a piece of crap anyway. Easy to miss.

"Who are the Honeysuckles?" I just look at her. Clearly she must know the Honeysuckles. They're her landlord, after all. What if she's never met them? But I dismiss the thought almost simultaneously. Chalk it up to old age.

"They're your landlords," I say softly, hoping to ring a bell. Instead, she just returns my glare.

"Oh no, they aren't my landlords. I'm leasing this from someone I met at rehab back in Tennessee. An awfully sluttish woman, I must say, but she's kind enough to let me stay here while she figures out what to do with the place. She was quite scared at the proposition of coming back. I haven't the clue why, though. It's a quaint little house."

"Rehab. Tennessee. Afraid of returning. Sluttish. This can only mean one thing. My mother is back; and she's close.


End file.
